


Maiden Voyage

by Firestorm717



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-21
Updated: 2010-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firestorm717/pseuds/Firestorm717
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uri christens his new yacht with the help of Victor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maiden Voyage

**Author's Note:**

> Because sex on the sun deck of a luxury liner is nothing short of divine. Special thanks to 2_perseph for pointing out the potential for this pairing. (Seriously, where did I put my slash goggles at the time?) Translations for the Russian phrases are found at the end of the fic.

  
_They say there are only two days you enjoy a boat. The day you buy it, and the day you sell it._   


The warm, pastel hues of dawn crept up the ivory tiers of the yacht, its vaulted bow gliding smoothly like a porpoise over the glass sea. It dipped into a wave, then rose again, gleaming, chrome and steel victorious over nature's forces. From the immaculate planks, to the luxurious furniture, to the windows so polished that beams of light were caught, dancing within them, everything about the boat radiated new.

This triple-floored masterpiece - all 15 million Euros of it - had been custom-ordered by Uri Omovich, a wedding present intended for his bride-to-be. His _former_ bride-to-be, Victor amended silently, as he looked out from the sun deck. The ocean breeze whipped over a fresh swatch of paint on the siding where not too long ago, the name "Nikita" had resided. That body was buried days ago, garrote marks still fresh around its throat, when Uri discovered (3 weeks and 20 million Euros too late) that her claimed profession of artist actually referred to _con_ artist, and not the fine connoisseur of European painting she'd led him to believe. For a week afterward, Uri brooded, while Victor tracked down payments, eliminated conspirators, cleaned up the mess.

Bit his tongue, even though he'd warned that this would happen.

Leaning back from the railing, Victor let his gaze wander over to the copper-haired man by the pool. Uri had just finished toweling himself off after a swim and was now shrugging on a thin dress shirt, its front flapping open in the breeze. Trickles of water made the fabric cling, translucent, to his slim figure. He padded over to an ice-filled cooler by the table and lifted the bottle of Dom Perignon nestled within, rays of sun warming his pale skin. For the first time since the Nikita incident, Victor saw him smile.

"You know, they say that it is unlucky to sail a boat without first naming it." With a practiced hand, Uri popped the cork and poured two flutes of clear, sparkling champagne. "So today, we will christen this boat." He gestured for his lieutenant to take a seat. "Victor. Please, come to join me."

Slowly, Victor slid off his sunglasses and settled into the posh, cream-colored chair across from his employer, a pensive expression on his face. Though relieved to see the dark cloud over Uri break, bitterness still ate at him, and he hesitated before lifting his glass.

Uri raised a toast. "To the new ship, _Fortune_." He took a sip and cast his eyes over the horizon. "I would break a bottle on the bow, but I don't want to damage the paint work," he remarked with a touch of humor. When Victor gave no response, he glanced back at his lieutenant and observed, "You do not approve."

Victor chose his words carefully, though they both knew the real reason was the girl. "Don't boats generally take on a... " he waved one hand, "female name?"

"And who says fortune is not a woman?" Uri shrugged. "After all, Lady Luck has been parting men from their money for centuries."

"Hmph." Victor drowned his words in alcohol. "The most treacherous of the bunch."

They drank in silence, Uri serene, Victor anything but. The events of the past few days still roiled restlessly in his mind. Always, it was the women. One after another, the pattern remained the same, and still Uri fell for their siren lies over his repeated warnings. It was enough to drive a _zheleznyi zanave_1 between them. He fingered the stem of his flute, gaze flicking once more to his employer. Warm, amber rays illuminated the sharp lines on Uri's face, remnants of an impoverished life that only a few outside Victor knew. Yet...in a way, he understood. Victor downed his glass. He understood, because he too felt the same emotions twist in him for this man.

"To think we'd be sitting on a vessel of capitalism, watching the sun rise over the old country, eh?" Uri remarked wryly, his eyes the color of the sky.

"Things have changed much since those days."

"Do you remember the incident with the bear?" A mischievous grin lit up Uri's face, and though he knew the story - witnessed it, in fact - Victor listened as if it were the first time. "The captain went into the bushes one night to relieve himself when he was surprised by a brown bear. In his haste to get back to camp, he had lost his pants and pounded on the door of our barracks, demanding a rifle."

Victor shook his head at the memory. Even now, the tale was famous among new recruits. "I remember you were put on latrine duty for a week as punishment for your response."

"Well, I merely asked a sensible question." Shrugging, Uri reclined in his chair. "I wanted to know whether he would like to borrow some trousers so as not to leave his other gun dangling." A chuckle finally broke through Victor's lips, as he recalled the red-faced expression on their superior's face. Uri certainly had stirred up a following in the army, intellect and charisma quickly rocketing him through the ranks. But he was much too restless to climb the ossifying ladder of bureaucratic favor. So when a sharp-dressed Uri walked into his FSB office one day, a new kind of offer in hand, Victor knew he couldn't refuse. His loyalty had been cemented the day he'd called this man comrade.

Uri leaned in once more, all humor dropping from his face, and fixed his lieutenant with a serious gaze. "Victor. You know I trust your judgment. You of all people have been with me since the first days in Chechnya." The blue in those eyes - so often cold and piercing - melted for an instant. "I value your service very much," he laid a hand on Victor's arm, "and I would not ignore your advice lightly."

The words had all been said before. Victor knew, because he had believed them, only to feel betrayed when the next _blyad_2 waltzed into Uri's life. Yet still, he could not doubt the sincerity in that voice. "Da, Uri. It's all forgotten," he said quietly, looking down at the hand on his arm. A worn hand, roughened by war, one which had saved his life many years ago. He found himself repeating the phrase that had become his excuse for forgiving every time. "My tovarishchi."3a

"More than that," Uri replied, and his hand now rose to the other's cheek. "Tovarishchi po oruzhiyu."3b He tilted his head until they were bare inches from one another, the soft bristles on his chin brushing against Victor's smooth-shaven face, teasing the younger man into an open-mouthed kiss. The taste of warm champagne suffused his tongue, shadowed by the faint glow of cigarettes Victor had never quite given up since their army days. Rising from his seat, Uri gripped that long, angular jaw and turned it towards him in silent command.

Obediently, Victor let his lover close the distance between them. Uri pressed him back against the railing, fingers linked, the warm sea breeze combing through his dark curls. Several decks beneath him, the wide expanse of ocean surged by, limitless waves broken by the bow of the mighty yacht, leaving snowdrifts of foam in its wake. His eyelids drooped as Victor ran his hands over the other's naked chest, still damp from the earlier swim, and inhaled the scent of salt spray and a swirl of expensive cologne. Even here, that refined aspect of Uri - so carefully cultured to cloak the truth of his past - seeped through.

They parted for a moment to draw breath. With deft fingers, Uri undid the buttons of the other's suit jacket, chiding, "This isn't Moscow, Victor."

A hint of irony in his voice, Victor replied, "You never complained when we shared an army bunk."

The memory tugged at Uri's lips, and he ran his thumb over a long scar exposed on Victor's chest, just beneath the collarbone, eyes distant for a second. Smiling. But then urgency took hold and clothes quickly followed caresses, until they were both splayed on the deck, Victor spread-legged with Uri's slick fingers probing at his entrance. A patch of sunlight illuminated the sloped muscle where they were joined. Kneeling above his lover, a vista of the burnished sky unfurling before him, Uri remarked with uncharacteristic humor, "Well, it's not what the Church would consider a christening, but..." He finished his sentence with one swift movement.

Victor, accustomed to pain as only the KGB could teach, merely bit his lip at the intrusion, brow furrowing slightly as he felt the stiff member slide inside. Slowly, he shifted his torso lower until he was completely impaled. A small hiss of air escaped from between his teeth as Uri began to move inside him, long toned legs propelling each thrust. With their bodies flush against one another, Victor could sense every heave of breath, every chisel of muscle through his cock, trapped like a pulse of heat between them. He wrapped an arm around the other's neck, mouth finding purchase along the hard line of jaw, and pulled Uri into a passionate kiss.

Their tongues twined like limbs, as teeth tugged at Uri's lower lip, nipping, tasting, until the plump skin glistened, red and swollen. Uri let a moan curl low in his throat. A trickle of sweat beaded on his Adam's apple, bobbing with each breath. Desire flushed his normally fair cheeks and swelled his pupils until they eclipsed all but a corona of icy blue that limned their depths. He gripped Victor's hips roughly, forcefully, pushing deeper into the sweet heat that writhed beneath him. Perhaps with women Uri was gentle, courteous, restrained, but that was not the real Uri. The real Uri, the self-made Uri, the one that Victor felt throbbing like a heartbeat inside him, took what was his as quickly and as inexorably as the frost of Siberian winter.

Panting, cock wet, a sheen of sweat gleaming on his heaving abdomen, Victor nevertheless found the strength to arch further into that delicious friction. In this position, the sun-warmed deck dug into his shoulder, and he knew that he'd find bruises the size of golf balls the next day. But the thought hardly slowed him down. Rather, a glint flashed in Victor's slitted eyes, and clamping his thighs around his lover's waist, he rocked into the white hot heat with every fiber of his being, fingers bunched, jaw tensing, sparks of sheer pleasure racing up his spine.

"Ahh, Victor." It was not often that someone took Uri by surprise. His copper locks were now dark with sweat, which beaded, then trickled down to collect in the small of his back, where Victor's fingernails dug into his skin. Dipping his head, he left sharp bites along the other man's jaw and neck and collarbone, teeth closing around the jagged scar that sloped Victor's chest...tracing it...laving it...listening to the rapid beat of blood underneath. His palm slid down to encircle his lover's cock.

"Uri!" The weight of a hand around his member finally wrested a moan from Victor's lips, low and full of need, tongue tripping over English words as he lapsed back into his mother tongue. "Tovarishch, pozhaluista."4a

Fingers tangled in damp black curls - both in Victor's scalp and again wrapped around the base of his cock - Uri murmured huskily in his lover's ear, "tebe ne nuzhno dazhe prosit."4b He ran a thumb over the drooling tip, eliciting another groan, then began stroking the engorged shaft in time with his thrusts. Each pump brought a new shock of pleasure, as Victor's exquisite tightness clenched all around him. Shutting his eyes, he rode the rough grind of their bodies closer and closer to climax.

Breath coming in ragged bursts, Victor felt his last vestiges of self-control slip away. He arched back, nails scraping at the nape of Uri's neck, the steep rock of the boat affording him a dizzying glimpse of the crease where sea touched horizon...and the combination of roiling passion and blinding sunlight, of pounding heat and crashing waves, finally pushed him over the edge, his lover following not far behind.

They exchanged kisses and half-slurred endearments in their native tongue as the intensity of climax subsided, languishing in the buzz of post-coital bliss. It was Uri who prepared to rise first, only to be stopped by Victor's hand on his back, a rare fracture of emotion on his lover's normally taciturn face. "Uri..." Victor trailed off. Words tumbled out fitfully, as if any hesitation would banish the moment. "Forget about the cheats, the liars, the women. They mean nothing to one such as you." Pausing, he forced his voice to lower a notch. Pressed his lips to Uri's skin. "Tak mozhet byt' vsegda. Tol'ko my vdvoem, kak v starye vremena,"5 he whispered.

It was not like his lieutenant to express such stark sentiment; for a moment, Uri's guard dropped, and he ran two fingers lightly across Victor's face. But then, the distance returned. "Da, Victor. I know."

Two weeks later, Victor watched as Uri fell once again for the silk lips and almond eyes of another _blyad_, jealousy welling in the back of his throat.

1 iron curtain  
2 whore/slut  
3a We are comrades.  
3b Comrades in arms.  
4a Comrade, please.  
4b There is no need for pleas between us.  
5 It can be like this always, just the two of us, the way we were in the old days.


End file.
